


Where Loyalties Lie

by RiverWolf



Series: The Aftermath of Chaos [3]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Post-Order 66
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11003808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverWolf/pseuds/RiverWolf
Summary: Clones were designed to be expendable, but to Stitch, the bond of brotherhood outranks everything. After Order 66, Stitch makes sense of shattered loyalties by caring for those the citizens of the Republic have forgotten-- his fellow troopers-- but the Empire doesn't take kindly to theft of property, and clones are no exception. To give young clones the life they were denied, Stitch needs the help of a brother who left the war-- and the Republic-- a long time ago. Former trooper Sammich has a new life now, but Stitch's return is a reminder that some bonds run deeper than orders demand.





	Where Loyalties Lie

Stitch opened his eyes, no longer able to ignore the insistent chirping of his comm, which he'd left beside his head as he slept. Yawning, he grasped for the device in the semi-darkness of the cramped quarters he'd been sharing with a handful of his brothers for a few days now. Fumbling for a moment, he found the button to receive the call by touch.

"Stitch? You alive down there? I've been trying to wake you up for the last ten minutes!"

He yawned again, hoisting himself up onto one elbow. Skyla had been piloting for almost the entire duration of their journey, and he couldn't help but feel guilty that he'd been asleep while she'd been working.

"Yeah, I think so. Sorry, I must have been sleeping deeper than I thought."

"I'm teasing you, Stitch, I'm glad you finally got some rest. I just wanted to let you know we're coming up on Rishi. If you want to come up here and take a look at the view, we can verify the coordinates you gave me before we start our descent."

"I'll be right with you."

Kicking his sheets to the foot of the narrow bunk he'd been using, Stitch slipped out of his tiny alcove. There were just two sets of bunks, so they'd been sleeping in shifts. The other three young clones were already awake, watching him expectantly. He'd been sleeping mostly clothed, but he stopped to pull on his boots, gauntlets, and a loose poncho. They were waiting for orders, he realized. He chose his next words carefully.

"I'm heading up to go over the landing coordinates with Skyla. When you boys are ready, you're welcome to join us. I'll make sure the caf's fresh. "

The boys nodded sleepily, wincing slightly as Stitch brought up the lighting in the cabin. None of them looked like they'd slept particularly well, which was something he could sympathize with. The closer they got to Rishi, the quieter the young clones had become. Stitch had briefed them all to the best of his ability-- he'd hoped to find them work on one of Rishi's countless orchards. They'd be relatively safe here, Stitch knew. There was very little of interest to the Empire in the Rishi system. During the Clone Wars, there had been an outpost on Rishi's barren moon that had been a last line of defense to Kamino, but these days, Rishi's inhospitable jungles and rugged terrain were more trouble than they were worth to navigate. As far as the Empire was concerned, the planet wasn't valuable enough to waste precious resources and governance on. In other words, it was the perfect place for a handful of clones to disappear.

Stitch made his way through the tight corridors of Skyla's ship-- a small but serviceable freighter with a few after-market modifications she'd managed to secure with help from a network of smugglers and bounty hunters that had taken her in. Skyla belonged to a resourceful clan of Mandalorians that had agreed to turn a blind eye to her past after she proved to be more valuable to them alive than the substantial bounty on her head. She'd been a jedi in another life, by another name, but Stitch and a select few of her _vode_ were the only living beings privy to that information, and he had every intention of keeping it that way. Skyla was a smuggler, a member of clan Vok'chi, and a valuable ally, and that was all that mattered anymore.

The door to the ship's cramped bridge slid open, and Skyla and the clones who were already awake glances over their shoulders and nodded at his arrival. Behind them, the viewport was entirely filled with the vivid colors of Rishi-- emerald greens and crystal blues and swirls of clouds marbling the atmosphere and the terrain below.

"Just in time! I was about to start taking her down. Are you sure these are the right coordinates?"

Stitch scanned over the ship's readouts one last time, feeling uneasy. He'd struggled with the decision to come here despite a desperate longing to reach out to the last tie he'd preserved to his former life. There was so much he'd tried to forget about his past in the aftermath of Order 66. He'd left names and moments and bonds behind in the rubble, prying them from his memories one by one in the months he'd spent buried in his work with Skyla. His thoughts from that time were intrusive and unwelcome, but if he focused on the boys he now worked to protect, it was easier to ignore the faces of his past. But this one was different. He let his mind form the memory this time, smiling a little in spite of his nerves. Somewhere far below was the location of his last transmission from a former squadmate-- his brother Sammich.

"Yeah, this is the right place," he muttered, his eyes locked on the viewport. He felt Skyla's hand on his shoulder, but he didn't move.

"Are you sure about this, Stitch?"

He exhaled, releasing some of the tension he realized he was carrying in his shoulders. So much had happened in the time since he'd last seen his brother that he had no idea what to expect. The last time Stitch had spoken to his brother, it was to give him the news that Stitch knew in his heart would lead to Sam's departure. Sam hadn't been the same since his hands had been destroyed in blast that nearly claimed the lives of the entire squad. Sam's quick reaction had spared them, but the injuries he'd sustained meant he couldn't hold a blaster anymore. Stitch remembered very little of his time on that frozen outpost-- just a haze of medical procedures and endless sleepless nights. He'd done everything he could for his brother, but the nerve damage had been too severe. He needed prosthetics to continue fighting.

When they'd returned to Coruscant at last, Stitch had seen the orders for his brother's reassignment. Simple prosthetics were a basic medical procedure, readily available to most civilians, but it was an expense the Republic wasn't willing to sacrifice for a clone this late in the war. He'd simply be replaced. Sam had been stony when Stitch gave him the news, and after a long silence, he'd removed the armguard and communicator he still wore, placed it in Stitch's hands without explanation, and turned away. Stitch left the med bay door unlocked that night. In the morning, Sam was gone.

Stitch parted ways with the Empire with only the equipment he wore and his final gift from Sam-- the single, battered bracer. In the days following Sam's departure, he'd noticed the bracer's embedded communicator was receiving just one transmission-- a series of pulses that Stitch finally realized translated into coordinates. Over time, the transmission came less and less frequently, but Stitch slept with the bracer within earshot, recording the coordinates each time they came. Stitch realized the risk he was taking in following a strange transmission to an unknown destination, but he was desperate. He had to try.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Skyla squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and dropped her hand.

"Let your brothers know we'll be on the ground in about an hour."

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Stitch noticed as he made his way through the spaceport was the way his hooded cloak clung to him in the intense humidity of Rishi's afternoon sun. The landing pads hummed with activity in the shadow of the enormous, tangled vegetation that grew around the perimeter of the buildings, and narrow streets wound their way away from the port and into the heart of the small, coastal city they'd set down in. Skyla had taken the young clones with her to search for some of the supplies she needed to restock the ship after the journey, leaving Stitch to his own devices. He could feel sweat trickling through his hair as he stood at the dusty intersection of a few winding streets, his fingers tracing the shape of Sam's bracer on his own forearm.

_Now what?_

Stitch sighed, feeling overwhelmed as the heat of Rishi's sun glared down on him from above. He'd followed the last transmitted coordinates he'd managed to record, and they'd led him... here. A city street full of lifeforms, many of whom were attempting to avoid recognition as they went about their business in the grimy commercial storefronts and market stalls. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to find, but in his desperation to reach the coordinates he'd recorded, he hadn't planned on how exactly he was going to find his brother, if he was even still here.

Frowning, Stitch wiped the sweat out of his eyes and pulled his datapad out of a pouch on his belt, shading the display with his hand and squinting at the readout. The location of the last transmission he'd received was just down the winding road ahead. He tucked the datapad back into his clothing and made his way down the street, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Warehouses stood on either side of the narrow avenue, their huge metal shutter doors unrolled to reveal their dirty, dark interiors. Amidst piles of what looked like junk to Stitch's untrained eye, humans and the occasional native avian species, the Rishii, scrounged and rummaged noisily while shop purveyors watched closely from nearby. Stitch rounded a sharp corner, and the street widened and ended abruptly at the entrance to what appeared to be an enormous scrapyard. Beyond the confines of the damaged fencing that surrounded the facility's perimeter, Stitch could make out several hollowed-out ships amidst the heaps of metal and rusted old equipment.

The coordinates had brought him here. He swallowed, fighting back bitter disappointment. It had been a mistake. Sam's transmitter was probably buried somewhere amidst the garbage, feebly sending out signals until eventually it would succumb to the humidity and grit. He felt himself sway in the heat and leaned against the fencing, staring at the mountains of shrapnel quietly.

"You here to buy something, or are you just sightseeing?"

Stitch flinched, the deep growl taking him by surprise. He turned away from the fencing and faced the source of the voice, his eyes meeting those of a tall, broad-shouldered zabrak.  

"We don't take kindly to tourists out here, boy," the zabrak continued, his arms folding carefully over what appeared to be a heavy welder's apron. "If you're looking for something in particular, I might be able to help you... for a price. Otherwise, it's probably time you headed off."

"Thanks for the generous offer, but there's nothing I want in that scrap pile," Stitch responded dryly before he could stop himself. The heat and the pain of his disappointment were getting to him, but he realized the moment the zabrak stiffened that he'd have to be less careless with his words. He was unarmed, and the last thing he needed was a fight.

"Sorry," he muttered, trying to reign himself back in. "What I meant was, I'm not looking for parts. Or trouble. Just... someone I was hoping to find. I've got the wrong place, I'll be on my way."

Stitch turned to go, but the zabrak was faster. He felt himself buckle as the scrap hawk's steely grip pulled him back and pinned him against the fence. Stitch caught his breath, feeling the weight of the other man's piercing gaze. He was alone and had no way of calling for help, but the zabrak's expression shifted slightly as he scanned over Stitch's face.

"Looking for someone, eh?" The zabrak murmured, the corner of his eyes creasing slightly in a look that could have been either a smile or a scowl. "Might be able to help you after all, now that I've... had a chance to get a better look at you." Stitch felt his chest tighten, but remained silent. The zabrak turned Stitch's head with one rough hand, pointing back down the street the way Stitch had come.

"There's a cantina down the road there, at the intersection. Go there. Make yourself comfortable. Wait."

Every instinct in his body was telling him this was a trap. He was unarmed and had no way of obscuring his distinctive clone features that made him easily identifiable.  He had no way of knowing what this man's intentions were either, but what other choice did he have? Quietly, he nodded to the zabrak, who released him with a sharp laugh. He knew better than this, but his heart was racing with every step he took as he made his way back towards the dirty bar. It couldn't be. The transmitter was most likely in the scrapyard, buried in the wreckage of some plundered ship. Sam wasn't here, perhaps he never had been. He wasn't. He couldn't be.

 Regardless, he did as he was told.

 

* * *

 

Stitch shifted anxiously in place, swallowing the last dregs of the now warm glass of ale he'd been clutching in both hands for the last half an hour. It was all he could do to keep himself steady as he tried to drown out the way his lungs clenched in his chest. It had been so long since he'd seen his brother, and the circumstances surrounding his departure had been so painful he had no idea what kinds of feelings Sam would have about seeing him again. He sighed softly to himself, running his fingers over his scar and through the small white tuft on his forehead reflexively. He'd been here longer than he'd told himself he'd stay, although his only means of measuring the time he'd spent waiting were a few empty glasses on the table in front of him. From his dingy corner, he's watched cantina patrons come and go all afternoon as he tried not to think about the possibility that it had all been a setup. He'd been told to wait because he looked like easy prey for some enterprising smuggler. That was all there was to it.

He set his glass down, mulling over his next move, when a reflection in the dirty glass knocked the breath from his body. Stitch paused for a moment, a surge of emotion rippling through his chest. He took a deep breath and turned slowly in his seat, his eyes meeting a face so familiar it might as well have been his own.

_Sam._

 For a moment, neither spoke. Sammich was standing wide-eyed beside Stitch's table, a look that was part disbelief and part something entirely indescribable etched into the lines on his face. Stitch felt the ache in his chest dissolving as he processed the moment. Sam was _alive_. He'd spent so many long nights wondering, hoping against hope that his brother had found the peace he'd deserved, that he hadn't been able to give him. What were the odds for one severely wounded clone surviving on his own, without his brothers? The thought had kept Stitch awake at night. They hadn't been _designed_ to survive alone. And yet, Sam had. They both had.

"You... you found me..."

Sam's voice was deep and hoarse with emotion. The Sam Stitch knew from their time together in Chaos Squad would have had him wrapped in a bone-crushing hug. Now he was hesitating, waiting. Stitch stood, closed the distance between himself and his brother, and gripped Sam's shoulders tightly.

"Course I did, Sammy... you showed me the way..."

Sam's eyes dropped, filling with tears as they caught sight of his old bracer on Stitch's arm.

"Never knew if anyone was listening on the other end," he murmured, touching the painted sun he'd once put down on the gauntlet with what was left of his hand.  "I heard the reports, of course, but by the time they made it all the way out here... well, I just didn't... I didn't know..."

Stitch smiled, ruffling his brother's hair a little. An achingly familiar gesture. Sam looked startled for a moment before breaking into a grin that Stitch realized he'd desperately missed.

"Takes a lot more than the fall of a Republic to keep _this_ old man down, you know that! Although I'll admit it was a little touch and go with your zabrak buddy back there," Stitch smirked. "Are all your friends so soft-spoken and sweet out here?"

Sam burst into a roar of laughter, his hesitation completely forgotten.

"Kosra? Was that old scoundrel giving you a hard time? He told me he'd met someone who was looking for me, I should have known he'd have given you trouble first! His bark's worse than his bite if you can believe that. He runs the shipyard around here, he probably just didn't like the idea that you might be here to poach his best slicer!"

"Slicer, eh?" Stitch smiled. "That's a long way from being a soldier for the guardians of peace and justice!"

"You don't know the half of it, brother! Come on, let's get out of here, this place is dirty and overpriced. You must've really made a bad impression on Kosra for him to send you here! We can talk more in private."

Without waiting for Stitch's response, Sam grabbed his brother's arm and headed for the door. Stitch let himself be led, relieved to be getting out of the dark, stuffy bar. They'd been drawing more attention than Stitch felt comfortable with in light of the sentiments back on the core planets that had put so many young clones in his care. Of course, clones hadn't ever been used as a security force on Rishi-- these Hutt-controlled Outer Rim territories tended to govern themselves with the help of opportunists and vigilantes. Still, he was uncomfortable drawing any more attention to himself than was strictly necessary. Stitch smirked a little, grateful for the fact that Sam's usually unkempt hair and beard were shaggier than he'd ever seen them. At least that would keep them from looking too obviously similar at first glance.

Sam led Stitch out into the streets and back towards the row of warehouses, pausing at a shuttered storage bay just beside the entrance to the scrapyard Stitch had found using Sam's signal. Dropping Stitch's arm, Sam keyed in a passcode and stepped back as the graffiti-covered shutter lifted, revealing a dimly lit room filled with stacked crates and a parked speeder. Sam turned to glance over his shoulder, grinning as he gestured at the rusted vehicle with obvious pride.

"Who'd have thought, eh? My own speeder! Well, it's actually Kosra's, but he has me making supply runs so frequently it might as well be mine. Come on, get in!"

Sam vaulted the door on the pilot's side and started the engine, and Stitch followed quietly, sinking into the seat beside his brother as he pulled out of the storage bay and into the narrow street. The speeder was designed for civilians, something Stitch had little experience with. The seats were padded and covered in soft, albeit somewhat stained cushions, which was a luxurious upgrade from the utilitarian metal benches he'd become so used to on Republic crafts. Stitch tried not to watch too carefully as Sam manoeuvred rapidly around the city's pedestrians, focusing instead on the architecture as they left the spaceport and passed through the seemingly endless market districts. The buildings were stacked tightly together, built on top of each other like haphazard storage crates, but unlike the near uniform grey of Nar Shaadaa's skyline, these buildings here were as colorful as the planet itself.

"The city's great for work, but it's hard to find space to live with the population as dense as it is," Sam commented over the street noise as he rounded a sharp corner. "When I landed here I didn't know anyone, kept mostly to myself. Spent most of my time scrounging for parts I could slice into. Y'know, wipe the Republic software off 'em so they'd be useful to... heh, well, a wider clientele. Rishi's a big planet, but gossip travels fast out here. Guess Kosra needed someone handy to reprogram a shipment he hadn't been able to sell off. And there I was."

Displacing one last cluster of pedestrians who had been milling in the street, Sam pulled the speeder through one last intersection and onto a wider arterial road that stretched off into Rishi's encroaching jungles.

"This road goes all the way up into the mountains, if you follow it that far, but hardly anyone lives up there other than the locals," Sam said. "They come down here once in a while for supplies, but they keep to themselves, mostly. Can't say I blame them."

The speeder shuddered beneath them as Sam nudged it a little faster. From here, Stitch could see more of the lay of the land, and he realized that the city and spaceport had been set on a peninsula, surrounded by blindingly blue sea. Stitch's eyes widened as they reached the road's crest, his eyes following the curve of the land as it met the water. He hadn't realized water could look so clear and bright-- his only real point of reference had been the steely, storm-churned Kamino oceans, and the frozen tundras and snow they'd faced while they'd been deployed. This was something else entirely. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sammich was watching him, waiting for his reaction.

"You weren't kidding when you said you were gonna find somewhere warmer, Sam... this is..."

Sam smiled, chuckling as he turned his eyes back to the road.

"Well, it isn't Kamino, that's for sure! That's fine by me, too..."

The edge in Sam's voice at the mention of Kamino wasn't lost on Stitch, but he let the comment go. His own feelings about Kamino were complicated. For all that it had been sterile and a part of the Republic's war machinery, it had been one of the few places he'd ever considered to be his home. After Order 66, he'd felt robbed of that, too. It had been the place he'd been programmed to die. Nothing more. As they neared Rishi's crystal-blue sea, he tried to remind himself of that as a vague feeling of loss welled up in his chest.

Stitch felt the speeder easing into a slower engine cycle and realized they were pulling off the road. Sam was guiding them along a wide strip of beach towards a rocky outcropping that stood between the jungle and the sea. There was a small cluster of buildings built into the cliff, and what looked like a dilapidated hangar facing the water.

"Found this when I got here," Sam said as he slowed the speeder, approaching the hangar carefully to navigate around a few old beams that partially blocked the entrance. "It was even more of a mess when I moved in, if you can believe that. Looks like it used to be an old smuggling station or something, but no one had been here for a long time when I got to it."

He powered down the speeder and hopped out, striding across the dark hangar to a panel on the wall, which he smacked unceremoniously with his fist. A few lights flickered to life, illuminating the dull, duracrete interior. Crates and supplies littered every corner. Sam was making his way up a small ladder, and Stitch followed him, remembering as he did so the limitless energy his brother had always seemed to have at his disposal. Stitch had been in a near permanent state of exhaustion while they'd been deployed, but he'd just started to take it for granted that he'd wake up in the middle of the night to find Sam awake, scribbling something on a scrap of flimsi by lantern light. He still moved faster than Stitch did, but it was different now. His motions seemed weighted down. Subdued, somehow.

Sam was waiting for Stitch at the top of the ladder. He hauled himself up and through the entrance, finding himself in a small, bunker-sized living area carved into the face of the cliff. On one end, the room opened out to a platform overlooking the sea, with a small area carved out for food preparation. Towards the back of the space was a sleeping area and a workbench, every inch of which was covered in electrical components and papered with designs and drawings on tattered flimsi. Stitch felt a lump in his throat as he looked around the place that his brother had made his own, his eyes landing on a small table with the remnants of his brother's last meal. Nothing about it looked remotely like the highly organized and impersonal living accommodations they'd been given to occupy before. This was something entirely new. He looked up at Sam, who was standing beside him, feeling overwhelmed.

"Brother..."

Sam's arms were around him before he had a chance to finish his thought, pulling him into an embrace that knocked the wind out of him and nearly made his knees buckle. He wrapped his own arms around his brother and took a deep breath, the familiar smell of his own scent amplified.

"About time you got here, too!" Sam laughed, his voice taking on a teasingly accusing tone. "You sure know how to keep me waiting! Been sending out those signals for months, you started to have me thinking you didn't make it!"

"I know, Sam... I'm sorry..." Stitch muttered, feeling genuine remorse.

"Don't be sorry, you did what you had to do. For all of us. If it hadn't been for you I might not even be standing here! It's just... I heard what happened, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. About whether I'd done right by you and the others..." Sam's voice trailed off.

"Don't, Sam. You got out. That took... well it took a lot more than I had at the time."

Sam pulled back, squaring his gaze with Stitch.

"The others...?"

Stitch flinched, his eyes dropping. He hesitated a moment, his gaze still lowered, and pulled down on a corner of his tunic, revealing a ragged blaster burn scar. He felt Sam's grip tighten on his shoulder as his breath hitched momentarily. He knew what had happened. There was nothing more to be said about it. Stitch covered the scar again carefully.

"Well... it doesn't matter anymore. You're here now. That's what's important."

Sam's voice was low and fierce. Stitch nodded but didn't elaborate, quietly letting it go. There were some things better left in the past, and this was one of them. Sam guided him to the table and pushed a stack of flimsi out of the way, responding to Stitch's silence in the best way he could.

"You hungry? I'm sure you are, that cantina sludge is practically designed to be unsatisfying. Here."

Sam picked up a small metal canister from the food prep surface, pouring out some of its contents into a metal mug. He placed the steaming, black drink in front of Stitch.

"Drink this, it's medicinal. I've got a few dehydrated meal portions and some of the local fruit I can make for us. It's nothing fancy, but it's still better than that bland beige stuff they fed us back in the GAR. You won't believe the stuff that grows out here!"

Stitch took a sip of the viscous dark liquid, wincing a little in surprise as the taste overwhelmed him. It was caf, as he suspected, but it was stronger and more flavorful than anything he'd ever tasted before. Not that he was surprised-- Sam had basically lived off the stuff. Stitch always had a suspicion it had a large part to play in Sam's chronic inability to sleep, but he valued his life too much to bring it up. A good medic always knew when to pick his battles.

"It's something, isn't it?" Sam grinned as he placed a tray of rehydrated bread and a selection of fruit Stitch had never seen before in the small space he'd cleared on the table. "They grow it here on Rishi, you know. It's ground fresh. If Kosra paid me in it I probably wouldn't complain, the stuff's worth its weight in credits. Don't tell him I said that though! Don't want him getting any ideas!"

"It's delicious," Stitch replied, inhaling the steam again before taking another sip. "Although I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight if I have any more than this."

Sam snorted. "Ah, don't be such an old man, Stitch! It's good for you."

Stitch watched Sam as he peeled the skin off of a particularly vivid fruit, pulling apart the fragrant flesh with his hands. His injuries had healed completely, to Stitch's relief, but the nerve damage in his hands made his movements shakier and less refined than they'd once been.

"So," Sam pulled a chunk of the fruit apart and offered it to Stitch. "What finally brought you out here, after all this time?"

Stitch took the offering and turned it in his own hands, feeling the texture on his fingers as he tried to choose his next words carefully.

"Sam... I need your help."

Looking up from the piece of fruit, he could see something in Sam's eyes darken slightly.

" You in some kinda trouble? You'll be safe out here, you know. The Empire stays away from Rishi these days."

"It's... well... it's not just for me, Sam. You know what's been going on, what I've been living in out there... even all the way out here, I'm sure you've heard about the riots back on Coruscant. Galaxy's not a very safe place for clones anymore..."

Sam frowned, setting down the fruit.

"Never was, Stitch. That's why we gotta take care of ourselves. No one else will."

"Well, that's... what I've been trying to do, Sam, but... well, a lot of these boys are young, they can't make it on their own. I've been trying to help them. There's a few of us working together now, trying to get these boys somewhere safe, where they can start again...it's something I've got to fight for..."

Sam leaned back, his eyes turned away from Stitch, towards the window.

"Yeah, well, that's rough but we've all got our own problems to deal with right now. You're putting a target on your head Stitch, you know that? The Empire isn't gonna look away while you drain their assets, even if clones _are_ more trouble than they're worth to maintain! You're gonna get yourself in a whole mess of trouble, and you're not gonna have a squad behind you to bail you out this time!"

"Don't you think I know that, Sam...?" Stitch muttered, trying to find his voice over the ache in his chest. "I know what I'm doing is dangerous, and I know I can't ask you to risk everything you've built for yourself here, but... they need to disappear. They need it bad. I don't know anyone else I can trust to forge a convincing set of papers like you can, Sam... I need someone with an eye for detail, and you--"

Sam laughed, but it was harsh and bitter this time. Snatching a piece of flimsi and a pigment stick from the nearest pile, Sam scrawled something across the blank surface and pushed it forcefully across the table at Stitch. He picked it up and looked at it, feeling his chest tighten as he did so. Sam's name and CT number glared up at him in a shaky, barely legible hand.

"Do you _really_ think I can forge Imperial documents without drawing attention to myself, Stitch? You know better than anyone I can't do that anymore, not after what happened to me! Look at this! I can't even draw a straight line anymore, let alone produce something that won't have the Empire on my back as soon as it comes across some self-important, promotion-hungry Moff's desk! This is exactly the kind of thing they'd love to come down hard on, and you know it! I'm not risking my life, Stitch. Not again."

Stitch felt his brother's resistance hit him like a wall. Sam had fought for his life, and here he was, _living_. He'd carved a place for himself in the galaxy by the strength of his own, mangled hands. And in doing so, he'd left everything he'd once known behind. Stitch felt the pain of his loss in his own body, knowing that it was a pain that they would always share. But his own response had been different. Stitch had given up on a place for himself. For a long time after the Orders came down, he'd lived hand to mouth, more often than not forgetting himself in the constant battle to find and secure medical supplies for his brothers, now seen as volatile and dangerous. Like _machines._ Deep in his own sense of worthlessness and isolation, Stitch did the only thing he knew how to do, the only thing that had ever made him feel like his life had a purpose. He took care of his brothers. Feeling his eyes burn with tears, Stitch knew his very presence here was asking Sam to turn away from the thing that had given _him_ purpose.

Quietly, without entirely knowing why, Stitch reached into his belt pouch, retrieved a small holodevice, and activated it. He set it down on the table in front of Sam, who continued to look pointedly away. Stitch felt distant, as though his body was acting without his will, but he didn't fight it. From the device, an image flickered to life-- a picture of the boys who were waiting back on Skyla's ship somewhere in the tropical night.

"Rivet was one of the first I met," Stitch murmured, the words spilling from him before he could stop himself. "He was the victim of a riot. He and his squadmates, Lock and Carver, were beat up pretty bad. Took me days to find enough bacta patches to cover their bruises, but they pulled through... they're great with their hands, love helping fix the ship when it needs it."

Sam exhaled slowly and softly, his head dropping into his hands.

"This one didn't have a name when took him in," Stitch continued softly. "Wasn't much older than 7, I figure. He doesn't talk much, but he listens. Named him Pip, because of the way his voice sounds. Soft, like a little avian. When I found him, he'd just been cut off of the Empire's clone drug. Y'know, the one that's supposed to slow our aging. He was too young to be useful to them, never finished his training on Kamino, so they decided to drop him from the program. When I found him, he was..." Stitch felt the tears burning in his eyes spill over at last, but he didn't care. "He was pretty messed up... said I could get him back on until he could decide for himself whether or not to keep taking it... without the withdrawal, you know... but he wants to live... more than anything..."

Stitch let his voice trail away, unable to continue through the lump in his throat. Sam's head was in his hands, his fingers woven into his hair. He groaned softly, sat up, and finally looked at the holo. In the light from the image, Stitch could see Sam's eyes were red and glassy.

"Enough. You've made your case, okay? You know how I feel about the Republic and the Empire. They're one and the same as far as I'm concerned. I've got no loyalty left for a cause other than living the rest of my short life in peace. But this... I'll do this for _you_ , Stitch. And for _them._ There's no greater good left in this galaxy, you hear me? I'll do this, but only if you keep your altruism to yourself."

Sam pushed away from the table quickly and stood, making his way over to the window. Stitch hesitated for a moment, pocketing the little holo again. Taking a deep breath, he stood and walked softly to his brother's side. The sun was setting over the shimmering sea, and far below on the beach, some of the planet's fauna had begun to bioluminesce in the darkness. He placed his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Thank you, Sam..."

Sam turned towards him, scooping him into another, fiercer hug. Stitch smiled, feeling his brother's warmth surround him in the deepening night.

"You and your kriffing idealism," Sam growled quietly into Stitch's shoulder. "I _missed_ you..."

For the first time in Stitch's memory, something deep within him that he was sure had died with the Republic settled into place. The feeling he thought he'd lost on Kamino had never been there at all. It was here. It was with his patients. Home wasn't a place or a planet. It lived right here, in moments like this.  And it was worth fighting for.


End file.
